


Equipment Checks

by crzy_wrtr10



Series: Special Investigations and Tactical Response Unit AU [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Athos Whump, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, One Shot, Still don't know what I'm doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You two,” Athos said the next afternoon after a painkiller-induced nap on the couch, “are the biggest mother hens I’ve ever had the misfortune to know in my life.”</i>
</p>
<p>Giving the four of them personalized Kevlar vests and asking the universe to ignore it is a little too much to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equipment Checks

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, first and foremost, for the amount of encouragement and love for this AU. Ya'll are awesome.
> 
> I'm hoping to start on episode rewrites either tomorrow or the day after - work permitting - but I also have some ideas for some other one-shots I want to do. 
> 
> If anybody wants to come play in the sandbox, you're more than welcome. 
> 
> Hasn't seen a beta - any mistakes are mine. Point 'em out and I'll fix 'em.

Athos stood in line with the ill grace of one who had other shit to do, not enough time to do it, and the almost overwhelming urge to punch someone. It wasn’t for their own requisitions officer – who also looked like he wanted to be anywhere else – but the salesman who had come on behalf of the company their recently-purchased Kevlar vests had come from. He didn’t fit in with present company, despite his efforts – and personal testimony on the vests themselves – and all Athos really wanted to do was collect his box and make sure his drunken guesstimates on sizes were correct.

“Team One,” he said to the man in charge of Musketeer requisitions, nodding at the clipboard he held.

“Gear for four?”

He did a quick tally in his head – the Three Stooges and himself. Yup. That made four. “Yes.” He took the box with a smile that was more predatory than thankful, and went back down the hall to the conference room they’d commandeered. He slapped the box on the table and held his hand out; d’Artagnan handed over his pocketknife.

“Try it on, make sure it covers the important bits.” He carefully slit it open and pulled out a vest, turning it the other way around to read the name patch sewn on the back under the hand strap. Most teams would use it to hang their equipment properly when they were finished with it. His would most likely use it to physically haul each other around. “d’Artagnan.”

“How come he gets his first name and we have to use our last names?” Porthos asked, looking between d’Artagnan and his own with du Vallon printed neatly in all caps.

“I’m special,” d’Artagnan said at the same time Athos remarked with a smile, “Because that _is_ his last name. Isn’t it, Charles?”

d’Artagnan winced. “Shut up.”

“d’Herblay,” Athos said, tossing Aramis his.

“d’Herblay?” Porthos looked at Aramis with raised eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard your surname before.”

Aramis snorted. “Better than de la Fere.”

Athos’s glare could have frozen hell.

He shrugged, and caught Porthos’s eye. They turned as one to d’Artagnan and asked, “Charles?”

It wasn’t natural for someone to turn that particular shade of red that quickly, though it was rather comical.

d’Artagnan flashed them all the bird and wiggled his vest on over his head. He tightened the Velcro on the side and twisted his torso.

Athos, once he’d struggled into his own, asked, “Feel okay?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.” Then he flailed for the neck of it; Porthos had picked him up by the strap on the back. They turned twin looks of appreciation – once d’Artagnan was sure he wouldn’t choke to death – on Athos.

“That might come in handy, actually,” Aramis pointed out, hands tugging on the top of his to pull it down a bit. 

“Probably,” Athos murmured, though he didn’t really want to find out.

 

In the end, Athos didn’t have a choice.

What was supposed to be a routine bust had gone horribly pear-shaped, and they’d split up, he and Aramis giving chase to the heroine dealer they finally had enough evidence on to arrest while Porthos and d’Artagnan remained at the apartment to keep an eye on the accomplices until the police could arrive as backup. The man – a squirrely son of a bitch by the name of Lemeiux – was quick. Barely quicker than Aramis in a dead sprint, but barely was enough as the three of them slammed their way into a warehouse full of crates and civilian workers.

Aramis peeled left, Athos went right, and he forced himself to take deep, even breaths to calm his heart rate. 

“Is there another door?” he asked one of the workers, who had gone still at the appearance of two armed SITRU officers and a man clearly on the run. 

“The only way in and out when the bay doors are shut is the one you came in,” he answered.

“Aramis, circle back around to make sure he can’t get out. I’ll flush him your way.”

_”Got it.”_

Athos inched along between the crates, gun at the ready. There were too many bodies in the way to just fire at will. 

The edge of the crate in front of him exploded in a shower of splinters.

He stumbled forward, one hand coming to shield his eyes and the other out to catch himself on the concrete floor. There was the sound of gunshots, and it was like he’d been punched in the gut twice in a row by Porthos while they were sparring. The air left his lungs in a rush and he dropped heavily to the floor with a wheeze, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Instinct propelled him to reach for his gun even as it was kicked from his grasping fingertips.

Dear God, his chest _hurt_.

There was a ringing in his ears that couldn’t disguise the sound of a revolver hammer being cocked back. 

“Aimed too low, didn’t I? You took those in the vest.” Lemeiux reached out with a foot clad in expensive Italian leather and nudged Athos in the side, tipping him off his hands and knees back to the concrete with a grunt. “Can’t miss from here, can I?”

Athos turned his head, chest still burning for air beneath his Kevlar as he fought to get back to his knees. He wasn’t going to die on his back, belly up like a coward.

“Neither can I,” said a voice behind Athos, cold as ice. “Drop the gun and put your hands behind your head.”

“I’ll kill him,” Lemeiux said, barrel pointed between Athos’s eyes. 

“I’ll drop you before you get the chance,” Aramis said, taking a step closer to his downed friend.

“I wouldn’t try him, if I were you.”

Athos craned his head around as he searched for source of the new sound – d’Artagnan, cocky as ever – and focused on breathing. If d’Artagnan was here, then that meant – 

“Even I can’t miss from here,” Porthos said, pressing the muzzle of his Glock against the back of Lemeiux’s neck. He moved quite silently for a man of his build and bulk.

Lemeiux dropped the revolver to the floor; d’Artagnan stepped in to kick it away, his own gun trained on the man while Porthos holstered his weapon to handcuff him.

Aramis shoved his own gun back in the holster at the small of his back and practically dove to Athos’s side on the floor. He put a hand on Athos’s nape and leaned in close to speak in his ear, “Slow, deep breaths. I’m going to get this off you, okay?”

The Velcro was unnaturally loud in the stillness of the warehouse; Athos, with most of his attention on sucking air into his lungs like it was the last time he would do so, let Aramis manhandle him as he saw fit. Quick, nimble fingers – Aramis was their equivalent of a field medic, though they were all trained in more than basic First Aid – moved over his chest, and he hissed.

“Don’t think they’re broken, but you need a chest x-ray to be sure,” Aramis said. 

“I’m fine,” Athos protested.

“You didn’t get up,” Porthos pointed out. 

Which shouldn’t have meant anything but meant everything. 

“That’s why I have you three idiots,” Athos said as Aramis helped him carefully to his feet. 

d’Artagnan snorted, hands on his hips. Aramis kept one hand under Athos’s elbow, and Porthos took the other side once he’d shoved Lemeiux none too gently into the waiting arms of the police. 

“I don’t _really_ need x-rays, do I?” Athos asked as they approached the door to the warehouse.

“Yes!” the three chorused.

 

“You two,” Athos said the next afternoon after a painkiller-induced nap on the couch, “are the biggest mother hens I’ve ever had the misfortune to know in my life.”

“Well thank you,” Aramis said, sliding a cup of coffee in front of the other man with a smile that suggested butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “We do our best.”

Porthos grinned, settling cautiously on the cushion next to him. Aramis shamelessly sat himself half on the arm of the couch and half on Porthos. Athos snorted at the sight, though he found himself leaning into Porthos’s warmth. He wrapped his arm carefully around Athos’s shoulders with an exaggerated sigh that had the three of them stifling chuckles. 

“I just fucking woke up,” Athos muttered around a yawn.

“Happy pills, happy pills,” Aramis sang, wildly off-key and slightly to the tune of _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_. 

Porthos promptly shoved him off the arm of the couch – he hit the floor with a yelp – while Athos curled around himself, laughing as much as his bruised chest would allow.


End file.
